


Falling Stars

by CinnamonnyBunny



Series: Lost Light Part Two [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambulon Lives (Transformers), Angst, Emotional Hurt, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Canon, Prophetic Visions, Rating May Change, Rung Lives (Transformers), Tags May Change, Visions in dreams, duplicate lost light
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22837948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnamonnyBunny/pseuds/CinnamonnyBunny
Summary: Drift's visions have yet to steer him wrong... and now, where he feels he should finally be safe, a new danger rears its head to threaten the happiness he's fought so hard to find.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet
Series: Lost Light Part Two [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1641796
Comments: 12
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

In that singular moment, the heaviness upon his shoulders was nearly unbearable. Drift could feel it surrounding him like a fog, curling its way into his joints, crawling up his spinal relay like icy digits, each one trying ever harder to prick its way around his very spark. Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to recall what made him feel this way. He stood in the middle of a pavilion, watching those he loved mill around him. He didn’t see Rodimus, which surprised him… hadn’t they just talked last night?

Next to his pedes, he could see a small altar, covered with and surrounded by vials of innermost energon… all in front of the foot of a monument, upon which was a plaque. “Without love, there is no meaning.” The sick feeling curled deeper into his tanks. Hadn’t that been what Ratchet had said to him at their ceremony? Quietly, as he interlaced their fingers, so no one else could hear?

Quietly, he rubbed his forehelm, trying to put together the pieces. He dreaded to look up. But in the end, look up he did… and he was stunned by what he saw. A hard light projection of Ratchet, standing tall and proud, thumbs hooked against his hip plating like always. His face was set in that grumpy scowl, optics slightly narrowed. This couldn’t be right. Hadn’t Ratchet been just fine yesterday? How was he standing here, at what appeared to be…

...a funeral.

His vents hitched. Another look around and he could see everyone standing in mourning, and a mech he didn’t recognize was quietly reading a eulogy. He was holding a vial of innermost energon in his hand.

"And like all endings, it came too soon,” the unfamiliar mech was saying. “That's not to say it was unexpected- far from it. Those who worked with the deceased, who traveled with him, who knew him at his phlegmatic best, will be unsurprised to hear that he reacted to news of his terminal illness - to news that he would soon succumb to age-related burnout- with a shrug, a sigh, and a single word. "Bugger.""

He zoned out for a moment, rubbing his face with a hand, shaking. He zoned out for a moment, just listening, optics squeezed tightly shut. The words continued. Why couldn’t they stop? Why was he still speaking? His hands trembled.

"So please let us join Drift in paying our final respects to Ratchet of Vaporex."

Ratchet. His Ratchet. His conjunx, the light of his spark, was… dead? No! No, this couldn’t be right-!

* * *

Waking was like plunging into ice water, and Drift gasped, thrashing in the berth before bolting upright, optics paled and plating flared to expel heat as his fans redlined. Sick fear raced through him, and he trembled as he shot his gaze quickly around the room. Everything was how he remembered it the day before. His swords lay on the altar, smoldering incense next to them. And slowly, the morning began to return to him. He’d woken hours ago, hazy as Ratchet stirred to his alarm so he could get ready for his shift. The medic had wrapped his arms tight around him, kissed his neck, run those beautiful hands down his abdomen.

His conjunx, just this morning, had been vibrant and very much alive. So what had he just witnessed? Slowly, keen to the way his tanks rolled following the strangely lucid nightmare, he sat up, shaking faintly. He almost opened a comm, but he knew that he would be working by now. Still… he wanted to see his face, and that dream had shaken him to his core.

Age-related spark burnout.

He knew Ratchet’s age. It wasn’t a secret that for all his joking about the older mecha on the ship, he was up there with them. His joints creaked, less now since Drift constantly badgered him to take better care of himself. His spark occasionally stuttered if he worked too hard. But that was normal, wasn’t it? And what’s more, that awful scene… it looked like it had been on what looked like New Cybertron. But they weren’t there. They were on the Lost Light- exactly where, according to the science squad, they should be. The quantum duplicate jump had worked. Hadn’t it? That meant that all of that, the awful dream… that’s all it was. A bad dream.

He swallowed hard, thinking back. No… no this was something else. Something he recognized.

The swordsmech stood, taking a quick run through the washrack and sheathing his swords before he hurried out, making a beeline for the medbay. He needed to talk to Ratchet. That dream had been a vision, and he could only pray he was right that this could be stopped.

* * *

He would never say it out loud… but the medbay was blissfully quiet. These days Ratchet mostly just did house calls and occasional consultations, having officially retired after their quantum duplication jump had worked. First Aid was a fine chief medical officer, and with the nurses and medics they had on hand, they didn’t really need him working full time. He’d finagled, of course, being able to at least teach rapid response skills for when nurses and medics weren’t readily available.

It was nice, though. He was laughing, joking with Ambulon about a situation that had cropped up while they were doing inventory… and that’s when Drift had burst through the door. The speedster was in a panic, and as soon as he’d spotted the medic, he rushed over to throw his arms around him, pressing his face tightly into his neck with a shaky sob. Ratchet blinked, putting his hands on Drift’s sides, immediately anxious. “Drift?” When his conjunx didn’t move, he gave him a gentle squeeze. “Drift… Drift, hey, what’s wrong?”

“Is everything okay?” he heard Ambulon saying. The younger medic sounded worried, and to be fair, so was he. “Want me to get anything?”

Ratchet frowned, then nodded as much as he could with Drift’s helm under his chin. “Yeah. A cube of medgrade- something to help him settle down, if you could.” As Ambulon nodded and hurried off to fetch a cube, Ratchet managed to pull Drift back, searching his face. Optical fluid was staining his cheeks and he was gazing at Ratchet as though he might disappear if he blinked. “Drift. Drift, c’mon! I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong!”

For a moment, Drift didn’t answer. He just gazed at the medic, mouth working without sound… and then he gave a ragged vent, struggling not to sob again. “Ratch- Ratty, I had a vision. It was so vivid, I- I was at a funeral. Your funeral, Ratty- I was laying you to rest. Ratchet you’re dying, you have to talk to First Aid-!”

Immediately, the old medic lifted his hands to cup Drift’s face, trying to focus his attention. Something awful curled in his tanks- a memory of why he’d gotten on this ship in the first place. But he’d been taking care of himself, he felt better than he had in centuries! “Drift, sweetspark, I’m fine. I’m not dying. You just had a bad dream-”

“It wasn’t just a bad dream, Ratchet, it was a vision! This has happened twice now, more if you count all the ones I’ve had in the past- please, even if you don’t believe me, then for my peace of mind.” He pressed his face into one of Ratchet’s hands, kissing the palm. “Please just at least get a scan done.”

The urgency was unsettling. He’d seen Drift frantic before, but something about this was different. He was genuinely terrified, every look he gave the medic one of terror and apprehension. In the end, he gave a long, weary sigh, rubbing this thumbs against Drift’s cheeks. “Look, I can tell you’re upset. I’ll go to First Aid. We’ll get a scan set up, and I’ll show you that there is nothing at all to worry about. All right?”

Drift hesitated briefly as his optics searched Ratchet’s face, but finally, he nodded, leaning in to hug him even closer. The thought of losing him now felt wrong, after everything they’d weathered. That their happiness could be stolen away so quickly was devastating. Tipping his head to kiss his jawline, he sighed. “Thank you. I mean it. I know this is coming out of left field, but that vision was just like the others- so real, and vivid.”

The frown returned to Ratchet’s face as he finally let his arms encircle his conjunx, glancing over at Ambulon as the younger medic returned with a cube of freshly blended medgrade. Whether or not he believed Drift’s vision was moot- it had clearly shaken him enough that he had dropped everything to rush to the medbay just to make sure he was all right. He vented softly, freeing a hand to reach out to take the cube. “Hate to keep imposing on you, Ambulon, but can you see if First Aid’s free? I’d like him to run some scans for me.”

It was probably for the best that Ambulon was as unflappable as he was. He simply nodded slightly, straightening. “He was just seeing off a patient, but you know he’ll make time for you, Ratchet. I’ll call in here when he needs you.”

“Thank you.” He pulled back, pressing the cube into Drift’s hands. “Drink this down. I know it’s gross, but you’re running hot and I doubt you’ve had anything since that dream woke you up. You need to settle down a little bit before we go in and talk to Aid, all right?”

Though he was quiet for a moment, Drift did finally give a soft sigh, taking a long drink from the cube in his hands. It was horrible, but it did give him some grounding. If he was right about the terrible vision, then maybe something could be done. Maybe there was still time to set all of this right.

* * *

It was nearly a full joor later that the pair found themselves in one of the examination rooms. First Aid seemed a bit skeptical of the whole situation, but he was as used to Drift’s eccentricities as everyone else on the ship at this point, so he wasn’t really going to question it too closely. Instead, he was hooking up wires to the diagnostic port on Ratchet’s arm, occasionally glancing up to gauge the reaction of the senior medic.

For Ratchet’s part in the situation, he seemed - for the most part - very blase. It wasn’t necessarily that he thought his conjunx had just had some sort of nightmare after possibly indulging in some tainted speedster grade the night before (though that was no small part of it, First Aid wagered), but he was confident in his self care. Of course, he hadn’t always been, had he? That was why he’d shown up on Delphi all those years before to find his successor when his hands were failing.

Though the more he thought about that, the more he realized that maybe there was more to this than he had previously considered. His optics searched Ratchet’s face again, but the eons spent in warzones dealing with things much scarier than a younger medic and an anxious swordsmech had given him one hell of a poker face.

“Okay. I’m going to start running the diagnostic now. Obviously you know you shouldn’t experience any discomfort, but let me know right away if you do, all right?”

When Ratchet nodded, so did he, and he began the scan. The information fed into his processor at lightning speed, and he dimmed his optics slightly as he allowed himself to parse through it. Much of it was to be expected, considering Ratchet’s advanced age. The occasional stutter of his spark wasn’t anything new, but considering Drift’s anxious concerns, he started poking through the data, looking at trends. Brightness of corona, rate of orbital spin, luminescence… it all came together in one larger picture, and as the pieces began to fall into place, he felt his shoulders tense. He didn’t like what he saw.

And Ratchet had noticed the change in his field. It was one thing he still struggled with after all these years, and though the older medic had told him he was improving considerably, he knew he still had much to work on. But now, he saw how Ratchet’s face changed as his optics brightened, but before the retired CMO could ask a single question, First Aid cleared static from his vocalizer, reaching out to unplug the cables.

“Well. I have to say that this is… unexpected. Beyond unexpected, actually. Ratchet, we’re damn lucky Drift insisted you come to me today.”

The swordsmech blinked a couple of times, clearly puzzled by First Aid’s words, but the chill that ran through his field was felt by both other mecha in the room. “What do you mean? First Aid, what’s wrong with him?”

The chief medic frowned behind his mask, ex-venting softly before looking between the pair. Ratchet was happier than he’d been in the entire time First Aid had known him… and Drift seemed infinitely more grounded. This wasn’t an easy thing to tell. “...judging by the low luminescence and decreased orbital rotation rate, it’s definitely age-related spark burnout.” He felt his own spark sink at the horror on Drift’s face, and the oddly frustrated expression on Ratchet’s. “We’ve caught it early, which is a good thing. I’ll go over your diagnostic readouts and start putting together a treatment plan. You have a long time left in you, Ratchet; we’ll make sure of that. But until we can get you medicated, on a proper treatment plan, and run some more stress tests, you’re indefinitely on medical leave from your active duties.”

“Bugger.” It was one word, but it felt so heavy in the grand scheme of things. His hand lifted to rub over his face, shoulders curling in slightly. “Damn it, I thought I’d been more careful-”

First Aid felt it before he saw it, the way Drift’s posture and field changed. “Wait, you knew? Ratchet!”

“I didn’t know! Not… not really. Not that it was this bad. Drift, I knew my body was failing. I joined this damn ship because I meant for it to be my swan song- I expected to die before the end. But then I went and got attached… and I fell in love. You chased me into taking better care of myself, and I was feeling better! I started thinking maybe… maybe it wasn’t this.”

For a moment, Drift was quiet. Then, without another word, he turned and swept out of the room, before either of the medics had a chance to get another word in. As Ratchet gave a defeated groan, First Aid glanced up at him, reaching up to put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “You can talk to him later, okay, Ratch? Right now, if you want to have a good long time to make up with him- and I know you will, you’re stubborn as hell- then you need to start treatment as soon as possible. We caught this early enough to do something about it, but that doesn’t mean you’re out of the woods.”

Ratchet didn’t respond at first, but finally, he heaved a heavy vent, turning his expression back to his protege. First Aid was every bit the chief medic he’d hoped he would be… and he was right. They didn’t have a lot of options now.

“...okay. Yeah… yeah, you’re right. I’ll catch up with Drift later… give him some time to cool off. We don’t have forever, right?”

“You’re right, we don’t. But don’t worry too much, Ratchet. Come on… let’s get started.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time isn't always right when the hurt runs this deep.

The number of treatments was obscene. Of course, Ratchet wasn’t necessarily surprised- age-related spark burnout was a terrible condition, and it killed more than could be saved from it. But First Aid was younger, had worked in extreme locations, and he’d started looking into more radical treatments for illnesses than he had gotten the chance to after the war started. So the list of things he had to do was… intense.

He also knew there would be a physical toll. Sitting quietly in one of the exam rooms of the medbay, he rubbed his chin as he scanned through the datapad, taking in the information on it. For the first year of treatment, weekly electro-igniograms. A list of medication as long as his arm, physical therapy, open-spark radiation treatments. He was going to be spending much less time at home than he really wanted. Not ideal, but he hoped Drift would understand.

But then, he hoped Drift would forgive him at all. One whole day he’d spent in isolated observation to determine the extent of the damage and the intensity of the treatments needed, and he hadn’t heard a peep from his conjunx. The speedster was understandably pretty angry about Ratchet’s keeping mum on the subject of his health, and it wasn’t as if he could blame him for it. This is what he got for second guessing himself. He’d never done it during the war, or in his career before everything had gone to hell. So why now, when they were safe and happy with their whole lives and a grand adventure ahead of them? The more he thought about it, the more he considered it was probably exactly that. He was happy. What reason had he to worry?

He was getting sloppy in his old age.

As he was considering the list again, he heard a faint knock, and his head lifted to the sight of the door cracking open. A pair of brilliant spark blue optics tempered somewhat by the oculars he wore peered in, and Ratchet gave something of a relieved sigh. “Good afternoon, Rung. Come on in- I’m guessing First Aid called for you.”

“He did. I hope I’m not intruding- I understand that you’ve received quite a… life-changing diagnosis. Thank you for giving First Aid your permission to fetch me. I know you don’t usually like talking about these sorts of things. We’ve barely talked outside of drinks at Swerves, in fact, so far as I recall.”

“You wouldn’t be wrong. I never liked to discuss my past or traumas or anything like that… but this is… it’s something a lot bigger than that. It doesn’t just affect me; it affects Drift too. He’s upset. He has every right to be.” He glanced up at the psychotherapist, lowering the datapad. “I’ve known for a while I was sick. I guess I’d just… convinced myself that it wasn’t this. That it was something else, and I was doing better.”

Rung made a sound that was somewhere between acknowledgement and understanding, and he closed the door behind himself before pulling up a chair. “You’ve always been quite self contained. Uniquely so, in fact. And stubborn to the very core of you. Admirable, but I can see how that would cause you to butt heads with even some of your more decorated peers… or someone you care as deeply about as you do Drift.”

A frown tipped down the corners of Ratchet’s lip plating at that, and he gave a weary sigh, putting down the datapad to instead run his hands over his face. “I really screwed up, you know. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, without question. I should’ve just… gotten the scans done the instant I figured something was up.”

“Well, admitting that is an excellent start. But it’s just that, Ratchet: a start. How intensive are these treatments…?”

“It’s no walk in the park, I’ll tell you that. Fatigue, nausea, loss of appetite, difficulty staying properly fueled, and so on. The symptoms will improve as the treatments progress, but the first few months… it’s going to be hard.”

Rung made that non-committal sound again, reaching up to adjust his oculars. “Then it seems to me that you have no alternative but to talk to Drift and sort this out. I’m not a relationship counselor by any means, but if you need any help while you’re sorting this out… you know my door is always open, and if it’s while your treatments are at their worst… well. I am always happy to make house calls for you.”

The old medic let out a heavy ex-vent, smiling weakly. “This is the part of relationships I’ve never been very good at, you know. The whole… “making up” part. God knows I need to apologize, but where do I even start?”

Again, Rung adjusted his oculars. “Well. A simple “I’m sorry” would be a good start.”

The look Ratchet gave him was incredulous. Had Rung just… sassed him? Not that he would be angry; there were a few people Ratchet could count who would catch his ire for being smart in serious situations, but Rung was certainly not one of them. “...heh. Suppose you’re right.”

“I do have a clever idea, from time to time.” A very gentle smile crossed his face, and he reached out with one hand to over Ratchet’s. “You know none of this is said to you as an actual therapist. You’d never allow it. But as your friend, Ratchet, I hope you will take some of my advice to spark. If you’re cleared, you should probably go find him. Letting this fester will only make things worse in the long run.”

He was right, of course, though it was difficult for Ratchet to admit it. He had sabotaged so many relationships by just walking away when things got hard. Refusing to say goodbye for fear that goodbye was permanent… and it so often was even when the words hadn’t come. But Drift was someone he’d fought to find, and that he would fight to keep. “Of course. Thanks for coming by, Rung. I’ll stop by later for some mid grade and sweets, all right?”

“Of course, Ratchet. And good luck.”

* * *

Being the ship’s captain had its perks. A private office, where he could take a breather if he really felt he needed it, was one of those perks. It was also an excellent place to receive distraught friends, and so it was that the instant he had received the message from Drift, Rodimus had excused himself from the bridge to head directly into his office. His best friend was not known for wasting time in situations like this, so he fully expected it when - a few minutes later - the swordsmech breezed through the door, jaw tight, browridge furrowed.

When he flung himself down on the couch Rodimus kept in the room (for reasons that varied, depending on who asked), he didn’t question it. He simply stood from his desk and walked over, lifting Drift’s legs so he could sit down as well, letting them fall over his own thighs as he leaned back, arms stretched along the back of the couch.

“Okay so you are definitely in the foulest mood I’ve seen you in for a long time.” When Drift groaned and draped an arm across his face, Rodimus moved one hand down to pat his shin. “I’m guessing this has something to do with our dear old retired chief medic. Not all marital bliss at home?”

A noncommittal grunt came from the other speedster, followed by a deep, heavy ex-vent. “I cannot believe him, Rodimus. I can’t! He knew all this time and he didn’t- he should’ve told me ages ago!”

Rodimus blinked, tipping his head slightly to one side. “Drift, you’re my best friend and I love you, but I am not a mind reader. What didn’t he tell you that’s got you so riled up?”

“He’s sick. Really sick. I had another vision, Roddy.” He uncovered his face, turning his attention towards his friend. “I was on New Cybertron, overseeing…” His voice hitched. “I was at a funeral. Ratchet’s funeral. I didn’t… it felt so real. I know he didn’t believe me, but I know what I saw. It was definitely a vision. Maybe it was the us we left on New Cybertron with that quantum jump, maybe not. Who knows? But however it happened, Ratchet died, of age-related spark burnout. So I made him go to First Aid.”

“And he’s suffering from age-related spark burnout, I’m guessing.” Rodimus’s browridge was knitted now, and he kept that hand on Drift’s shin, concern coloring his words and field. “Holy shit, Drift. Is he… god, is he gonna be all right?”

Drift shrugged, folding his hands on his chestplate. “First Aid said he could treat it. That he’d be fine, we just… need to take it step by step. He’ll have to take medication, probably undergo a lot of treatments. And I’m okay with that! What I’m mad about is that he knew he was sick. He said he thought maybe he’d dealt with it, but…”

Humming softly, Rodimus tipped his head back, gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling. “So… basically, Ratchet being his bull-headed, stubborn-ass self.” He gave a rueful smile when Drift cast a narrow-opticked glance at him. “Don’t you say a word, I know it’s a pot meet kettle situation. But how is it that saying goes… takes one to know one? He’s a good mech. We both know that. But maybe he just… didn’t realize how bad it was.”

“He’s legitimately one of the most talented physicians alive, Rodimus. Ratchet of Vaporex does not second-guess himself.”

“That you’ve seen.” He leaned forward, half draping himself over Drift’s shins as he looked up at his companion. “Look, even the lauded Ratchet of Vaporex makes mistakes. He’s a brilliant doctor; I’m not arguing that. There’s so many mecha on this ship that would be dead or worse if not for him, and a lot more beyond the folks that we immediately know. But he’s Cybertronian just like the rest of us. And just between you and me, even I know we’re not perfect.”

Drift just sighed again, and for several moments, he was silent. Then, after some time contemplating what was happening, he covered his face again. “So what am I supposed to even do? I just… I can’t even tell if I’m mad, frustrated, or terrified.”

The response from Rodimus was a shrug. “I don’t know. But I get the feeling that you’re probably a mix of all three, and I also get the feeling this is gonna be pretty hard for him to deal with. Take it from me, Drift- you two are absolutely smitten with each other, and this is gonna be easier for him if you’re there to pull him up. I can’t imagine this will be an easy treatment regimen, right?”

There was a pause, and when Rodimus furrowed his browridge, Drift peeked at him from under his arm. “Um… I… I actually don’t know. We found out yesterday morning, and we- I haven’t talked to him since.”

“Primus, Drift! And people say I’m tone deaf!”

“I was angry! And honestly I think I have a right to be angry, considering this is something I feel like he should’ve told me as my conjunx.”

Rodimus frowned at him, then reached over and gave him a slap squarely on his abdomen. It wasn’t nearly hard enough to hurt, but it did make him jump. “Is this seriously your first fight?”

Drift seemed to consider that for a moment, looking away with a small frown. “Well… yeah, I mean. Kind of? It’s more like our first disagreement than a real fight. Since we completed the rites and went through the ceremony, anyway. Why?”

“Because I think that’s part of the problem.” Rodimus leaned back again, stretching. “At least it’s not a first fight, right? Disagreements are easier to settle. I think you ought to go talk to him. Clear this up, you know? You’ll both feel a lot better for it.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know so.”

The swordsmech fell silent for a moment, then gave Rodimus a strangely guarded look. “...what if I’m not ready to talk to him?”

Rodimus only shrugged. “Then you’re not ready to talk to him. Just let me know when you are, and I’ll have your back, no questions asked. And if things go south? I’ll be right behind you. We’ll figure out how to sort it out together, buddy. Okay? Promise.”

* * *

Once he’d been released from the medbay, he’d done some wandering around the ship before he finally made his way to Drift’s office on the bridge. He’d commed Rodimus in advance, anxiously inquiring of the captain whether his conjunx had found his way to him. Though the younger mech was a bit hedgy on the details, he did finally admit that while Drift had come by, he was no longer there. His final destination was right where Ratchet was heading now.

He was anxious, of course. They hadn’t spoken since First Aid had confirmed the diagnosis. Irrational fear told him that maybe Drift would want out- that he’d finally come to his senses, realize he could do better than an aged medic with a utilitarian frame. Frowning at himself, he pushed the thoughts aside. He couldn’t let himself entertain those notions for very long. They’d just make things worse.

Shuttering his optics briefly, he palmed knocked before palming the door control, prompting it to open and allow him inside.

Drift didn’t look up at first from the small stack of datapads on his desk, and Ratchet didn’t make a move to disturb him, watching as his hand moved, scrolling through the data in relative silence. When he did look up, he was a bit startled at who he found standing there, and the medic noticed when he immediately withdrew his field, impossibly close, unreadable.

Not a great start.

“Hello, Ratchet.” The greeting was formal and curt. Hardly the welcome he’d become accustomed to in the evenings following shifts. No playful “Ratty” or peppered kisses. Just sharp, cold, measured words. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I… I was hoping we could talk, Drift.” He pulled over the chair across from the speedster’s desk, shaking faintly as he did. The weariness of the past day, his diagnosis, and the deeply rooted fear that lingered under it really was taking its toll on him. “About yesterday morning. In the medbay.”

Drift’s optics narrowed briefly, and then, he looked back at the datapad. “I don’t know that there’s a whole lot else to talk about. I had a vision, I was right, and it turns out you were hiding that you were sick.”

Immediately, Ratchet felt his temper bubble up. “Wh- hiding it? I wasn’t hiding anything! I had recognized some symptoms before I ever even joined the Lost Light. I started to feel better after I started taking better care of myself, so I didn’t think it was anything major and left it be. I made a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Now Drift’s attention was focused fully on him, and suddenly, Ratchet was very certain that it wasn’t even close to the way he would have liked it. “A mistake, Ratchet?! A mistake is pulling a cube of Whirl’s rotary grade instead of speedster grade. A mistake is forgetting to close your modesty panel when you leave for your shift in the morning. Not telling your future, and now current, conjunx that you may just have had a terminal illness that could kill you and take you away from everything you’ve fought so damn hard to build is not a mistake!”

Damn his foolish, stubborn pride. Damn his anger always getting the best of him, the temper that had earned him such a reputation during the war. He didn’t stand from the chair, but he gripped the armrests hard, jaw clenching tight. “How the hell do you mean it’s not a mistake?! I was sick, I felt better, so I thought maybe I could be wrong! What, am I not allowed to be wrong now?!”

Drift scowled, his plating instinctively flaring. “I never said you weren’t allowed to be wrong! But thinking you have a cold and it turning out to be a tank bug? That’s something you can be wrong about. Not spark burnout! What if you had died, Ratchet?! What if I hadn’t had that dream and a week passed and I woke up to find you-” He choked, clenching his fists on the desktop. “This wasn’t just a mistake, Ratchet! We’re supposed to trust each other!”

“You’re doing a damn fine show of proving it.”

“Oh I’m the one not trusting you? You’re the one who didn’t tell me you had symptoms of a chronic disease that’s fatal if it’s not treated!”

Ratchet bit down hard on his glossa. He didn’t want to have this conversation to start with, and now, he knew it was going somewhere both of them would regret. Without a word, he stood from the chair, turning towards the door. “You need to cool off.”

Drift bristled. “No, you need to cool off. You can stay in your old hab. I can’t- I need space right now, Ratchet. Have a great day.”

For all that his spark wanted him to turn around, to apologize, to do something other than walk out of that office and potentially mess up the best thing that ever happened to him… he couldn’t. Stubborn pride and frustration in equal measure kept his pedes moving towards the door, and the last thing he heard before letting it close behind him was a choked sound - it could have been a sob - from the mech he loved with all his spark.

Gritting his dentae, he curled his fists and kept walking, storming off the bridge and ignoring Minimus and Megatron watching him as he went.

What was he going to do now? And more importantly… what had he done?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though tempers ebb, it's hard to tell if the storm on the horizon is approaching or departing...

The instant the door closed behind Ratchet, the swordsmech stormed to his feet, locking the door before starting to pace. He was furious, and why shouldn’t he be? They’d known each other for years now, and had completed the rites and ritual shortly after the successful quantum jump to duplicate their ship. They shared a berth. Shared a life! And yet the old medic had stubbornly refused to discuss such a life changing diagnosis. Refused to even consider how much this hurt.

Of course, he hadn’t technically lied. He knew that. It was, if he wanted to be very forthright about it, lying by omission. But that wasn’t even really a lie, was it? Ratchet was, for the most part, a very honest individual. To his detriment at times, considering how blunt he was known to be.

But he loved him. He loved him more than anything. Which was what made this all that much harder to struggle with.

Finally, the young mech stopped pacing, instead sinking to his knees in front of his desk, hands against his thighs for a moment before he unsheathed his swords, laying them on the floor in front of him. He needed to mediate. To clear his mind. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been in casual relationships or physical flings. His early life notwithstanding, his relationship with Rodimus prior to returning to the Lost Light crew was evidence of that. And despite Wing’s abject celibacy, he’d felt a deep connection to the monk.

Ratchet, though. Ratchet was different. Drift had spent a long time thinking about the medic that saved his life. As Deadlock, protecting him on the battlefield, even when the stubborn old mech didn’t realize it. And then there was this whole voyage. Though he’d joined it on some foolish quest for absolution, he’d found Ratchet instead. For all their bickering, their bond had become steadfast, until in a beaten down shelter on a lonely desert planet, they’d found solace in each other’s bodies and discovered that maybe their individual feelings weren’t as one-sided as they’d originally thought.

Letting out a gentle sigh, he gazed at the blades before him, then bowed deeply over them before standing, lifting them with careful reverence. Using one foot to push his desk back out of the way, he slipped into a ready stance, focusing the way he vented, his frame still. He needed to get these dark feelings out, push them away.

Limbs moved smoothly, effortlessly, through one of his katas, channeling his frustration into clean, quick strokes. Pedes slid across the floor, optics brightened, and he allowed his ventilation to increase slightly. Never to a point where it was difficult, but enough that he could feel he was working himself. It wasn’t punishing, nor was it a punishment. This was a way to calm his nervous relays.

Not that it was working.

For every fluid movement of his arms, the torn, hurt expression on Ratchet’s face burned itself into his mind’s optic. For every quick, precise movement of his legs, another growling, angry word echoed in his audials.

His medic was a genuinely kind person, and they were both angry for very different reasons. Had he been in the wrong for being so angry over this perceived slight? Did he have any right to be mad at him? He reminded himself that of course he did, they had to discuss these sorts of things! But at the same time, Ratchet really hadn’t lied.

His optics narrowed, and he paused when his stance faltered. He couldn’t maintain the focus to keep his movements clean and level. There was too much going on in his mind, not the least of which the fear that this whole mess would drive Ratchet to perhaps ignore or skip treatments. The concern that curled icy tendrils into his tanks that despite First Aid’s insistence that with treatment, the condition could be maintained, giving the old medic a long and fulfilling life… he was somehow wrong. That he could wake up tomorrow, cold in the berth they normally shared, and go down to try to talk to him again, only to find him gray and lifeless in the berth he’d abandoned to live with the mech he loved?

Shuddering hard, Drift started to pace again, spinning his swords absently. He was still angry, but now he felt it turning inward. It was an awful, frustrating, churning feeling he couldn’t quite shake. Before he could get too far in his self-flagellation, however, he heard his door click and slide open, and spun so fast he surprised himself, stopping with a blade inches from Rodimus’s helm.

Immediately, he drew back and sheathed the swords, hands up as his expression fell. “Oh Primus, Roddy, I’m so sorry, I thought-”

“Didn’t go so well?” He didn’t seem bothered. Though rare, this had happened before, and he knew Drift’s reflexes well enough to feel safe even with a sword swinging at his head. “I heard you two yelling.”

“...we were that loud, huh?” When Rodimus nodded, Drift sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. “I think I royally screwed up, Rodimus. What if he hates me?”

Rolling his optics faintly, the captain reached out to put his hands on Drift’s arms, giving a faint squeeze. “I don’t think he’s capable of hating you. Frustrated or annoyed, sure, but everyone on this ship has seen how he looks at you when he thinks no one’s looking. You’re both just a little heated right now.”

Drift sighed at that, shifting his weight as he looked up at his friend. “When did you go and get all wise, anyway?”

“I’m not wise, I just call it like it is. Do you want to go back to my office and chill?”

“...yeah.” He deflated somewhat, rubbing his hands over his face. “Then… I think I want to try again. I wasn’t ready to talk to him before. I’m still not now. But now I’m just…”

Rodimus smiled faintly. “Worried?”

A moment after, Drift nodded, not meeting his optics. “That’s a way to put it, yeah.”

Shifting to one side, Rodimus looped an arm around the other speedster’s shoulders, tugging him along towards the door. “Then let’s sit for a while and you can cool off. Then you can deal with your stubborn old medic.”

Nodding, Drift moved to follow him. He wasn’t entirely convinced he could cool off at all at this point, but… well. It never hurt to try.

* * *

Ratchet’s footsteps following his departure did not take him back to his old hab… or to the one he shared with Drift, which he had to mentally remind himself was off-limits for the time being. Nor did he head towards Swerve’s, another favorite spot when his temper ran hot- with his current condition, he probably shouldn’t be drinking anyway. Instead, despite being placed on mandatory and indefinite leave barring completing however many rounds of treatments it took to satisfy the medical team that his condition wouldn’t deteriorate, he went to his office.

It was smaller than his old one, which he’d given up to First Aid upon his full and official retirement, but it worked for his purposes. He tried not to think too hard, as he strode in and dropped heavily into the chair behind his desk, on the time he’d spent in here with Drift. Both just enjoying each other’s presence on a peaceful afternoon break or with the third in command straddling his lap, teasing him gently over his “stamina.” Optics trailed over his desk, the little trinkets of a life long lived. A holo of himself and the medical team, Drift’s vial of innermost energon given at their bonding ceremony, a bottle of expensive engex - unopened - that had been a bonding gift from a very cheeky Rodimus. Small containers of the sweets Rung liked, that he would often share with the therapist, and old, out of date datapads.

Maybe he should’ve gone to the bar after all.

He was left alone to stew in silence for quite some time before the door slid open, without any sort of warning from whoever was on the other side. Ratchet lifted his head just as an unexpected figure stepped inside… Ambulon. The younger medic’s steady demeanor was tempered so much by the frustration in his field that Ratchet could feel from where he was sitting. This just was not his day.

“So.” He had those bright gold optics focused on Ratchet, his lips pressed tightly together. “You really screwed the pooch on this one huh?”

“Do you even know what that phrase means, Ambulon?”

“I-... well, no. But I’ve heard you use it enough that I can make a pretty good guess at it meaning “you screwed up.””

Ratchet gave him a dry look, then leaned back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling. “I’m guessing you’re not here to make small talk.”

Without answering, Ambulon strode forward, turning the chair opposite Ratchet around so he could sit. “Well. First Aid told me how things went when your scans got done, since we’re all going to be helping with your treatment. And I figured you’d gone to talk to Drift. But… you’re here. Not in his office, and not at home. Since I watched you storm in, despite you being on indefinite leave… did you two fight?”

“It’s not important.”

“It kind of is, since he’s your conjunx endura and if anything happens…”

Ambulon watched as Ratchet’s shoulders tightened, the frown on his face deepening, which only served to make him look even older. It was clear he was tired… even considering his age, he at least usually was pretty good at not showing it. “Believe me, I know that. And before you ask again, yes I screwed the pooch. Damn it… I didn’t think it was anything to worry about. I wasn’t intentionally hiding anything from him.”

Leaning back, Ambulon tilted his head. “So that’s what this is about. Did you know you were sick or…?”

“I did. Kind of.” He ex-vented heavily, frowning. “I was having symptoms that matched some aspects of age-related spark burnout, but they hadn’t been as severe lately. I figured maybe I was being paranoid… and I second-guessed myself. Decided to leave the matter be.”

“...so you probably wouldn’t have gotten checked out if Drift hadn’t panicked?”

Ratchet’s frown deepened into a scowl. “No. No, I… I probably wouldn’t have.”

Ambulon leaned forward now, folding his arms across his thighs. The former Decepticon was very clever, Ratchet knew, and he was also not known for mincing words or dancing around a topic. If he hadn’t known any better, he’d have thought he sired the mech himself somehow. “You don’t second guess yourself, Ratchet. You always harped on us in the medbay before you retired. And I remember hearing it about you before I ever met you. Go with your first gut instinct. Don’t leave anything to chance. But you did this time, and I honestly can’t for the life of me figure out why you’d do something that stupid.”

In any other situation, Ratchet would have bristled under the accusation. But in the end, Ambulon was right: it was stupid to have put something like that aside, and he couldn’t quite figure out for himself why he had. “...I suppose… I suppose it’s that I felt happy. And I didn’t want to worry Drift unnecessarily if it turned out to be nothing. Though I suppose he would’ve worried regardless.” Scowling, he turned his attention back to Ambulon, jaw tight. “...don’t you have better things to do today than come in here and play couch therapist to my relationship problems?”

“Mmh. Not really. I’m on break, and the only situation that’s come through the medbay today was Whirl managing to get his claw stuck in a glass. Don’t ask me how he didn’t break it.” He shrugged, folding his hands together as he tipped his head forward towards the senior medic. “So I’m in here bothering you. You may be hard to work with sometimes, but we all do respect you a lot. None of us wants to see something happen to you… regarding your health or otherwise.”

That gave him pause. For a very long time, Ratchet had put his own health aside for the sake of those around him. They were more important, more needed. He’d never considered that others may want to see him hale and whole as well. Not just Drift, but the medical team he interacted with daily, the friends he’d made… everyone whose lives he’d touched, before and after the war. Quietly, he looked back at the ceiling, folding his hands on top of his desk. “Screw you all for worming your way under your plating like you have.”

Ambulon gave a half smile. “Yeah, we seem to be pretty good at that. But I’m not complaining. And despite yourself, Ratchet, I don’t think you are either. I’m not going to tell you to talk to Drift, because I’m not great at the whole relationship thing, and that’s not my place. But you’re clearly miserable.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“Apologize, maybe?”

“Now you sound like Rung.”

The younger medic grinned, pushing himself to his feet. “Hey, there’s worse things I could sound like. Go get some rest, Ratchet. You can sort the rest of it out, but you do need to rest.”

Grumbling faintly, the medic sighed, waving a hand to shoo him off. “Fine, fine. Go on, you menace. I’ll see you in a few days.”

As Ambulon waved and slid out, Ratchet sighed, briefly rubbing his hands over his face. Apologize. He really had stepped in it, hadn’t he? Well… no use beating himself up on it right now. He would have to go collect a few things from the shared hab before Drift got home, and head off to his old hab. He could talk to him in the morning. Pushing up from his desk, he made his way towards the door, locking it behind him as he went.

It took a little longer than the old medic normally would have wanted to make the long walk to the hab he shared with his conjunx. His usually brisk pace, which ate up the distance in short order as he trotted along towards his destination, was burdened by his frustration, trudging along at a slovenly pace as he ran the last two days’ events over and over through his processor. He’d screwed up. That much was certain. And the more he let himself linger on those thoughts, the more he felt his spark sink into his tanks. He hadn’t intended to cause Drift any undue worry, and he certainly hadn’t meant to nearly get himself offlined in the process. But here they were, and all he had left to do was give Drift as much space as he needed for as long as he needed.

God, that was going to be hard. It was hard enough to overcome his own stubborn pride and realize maybe, just maybe, he’d been in the wrong here. Dealing with the fact that in all his bluster, he’d hurt someone he’d fought so hard to find and share his life with...

Ex-venting heavily, he palmed the keypad to the shared hab and slipped inside, moving methodically around the room to collect everything he would need to for however long he would be staying in his old place. A warmer for his hands, the cushion for his back from the desk, datapads, a few cubes of his favored energon blend… then a few more, just in case.

It was hard to focus through all of this. At some point, he found himself sitting down on Drift’s side of the berth, lightly running his hand over the padding. Drift had been seriously hurt by his inaction, he knew that. And even if he felt right in being frustrated over his reaction, he had to remind himself that what he kept hearing was right: it was his right to have that reaction, no matter what he thought.

“Meeting halfway, huh?” he grumbled to himself, lifting his head to look around the darkened room. “Seems I’m not as good at it as I’d hoped.”

He had gotten so distracted in his thoughts, remembering the day they moved into this shared space, admiring the room they had, reminiscing on the life they had been slowly building, that he didn’t even hear the door open. It didn’t register that someone was in the room at all other than himself, until he heard that soft, familiar voice inquire, “Ratchet…?”

Ratchet immediately swung his head around, startled, and he found Drift standing in the doorway, haloed by the hall light- he hadn’t bothered turning on many of the lights inside, since he hadn’t been intending to be there long. His vents hitched as he admired him, and it was so hard not to just get lost staring at him. But it wasn’t long before his processor recalled the earlier fight and Drift’s angry but firm edict, and he gave his frame a shake.

“Drift, I-...” He hesitated, swallowing hard, immediately scrambling to his feet and gathering up the few items he’d left sitting nearby. He couldn’t believe how weak his voice felt. There wasn’t a time in his life he could recall feeling this ashamed, and it wasn’t a feeling he was looking forward to repeating. Steeling himself, he set his jaw. “I’m sorry. I just came to grab a few things- I know you need your space.”

He didn’t hesitate in making his way through the door, fully expecting the speedster to move out of the way. Which he did, somewhat… but then one of his stark white hands shot out, grabbing Ratchet by the elbow. When the startled medic turned his head back, he found himself looking into Drift’s face. He seemed anxious and contemplative, worrying his bottom lip with one of his fangs, until finally he swallowed, angling for Ratchet to walk back into the room.

“No, don’t, I-...” Another swallow, and he took a steadying breath, optics closing briefly before they lit with renewed focus. “Stay… please. I know what I said earlier, but… we need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Remember when you hit the brakes too soon?  
>  Twenty stitches in a hospital room.  
> When you started crying; baby, I did too.  
> But when the sun came up, I was looking at you.  
> Remember when we couldn't take the heat?  
> I walked out, I said, :I'm setting you free."  
> The monsters turned out to be just trees.  
> When the sun came up you were looking at me..._
> 
> ~Out of the Woods (Taylor Swift)

**Author's Note:**

> So this is based on three things: one, that we've seen Drift's visions were often just seeing other parts of the timeline/multiverse due to Reasons. Two, [this picture](https://66.media.tumblr.com/4a2402bddd2d677b0b503e0b459c9609/d16c1be80d7aad6a-66/s1280x1920/b6a79eeb896f7ea95f330620089594ca6e857965.jpg) by [pastelpaperplanes](https://pastelpaperplanes.tumblr.com) on Tumblr (original post [here](https://pastelpaperplanes.tumblr.com/post/188483090348/do-you-still-have-any-of-tou-old-art-old-art)). Three, First Aid commenting that he could've treated the symptoms and potentially saved Ratchet's life at the funeral in LL#25.


End file.
